In color language you look a lot like grey.
Either cool, dirty or neutral fume of description is how you always play.
They told me you are somehow stormy,
However, you reek somewhat like dark indie.
You feel like a film noir set in the 50’s,
got that bookish tongue with colorful flairs somewhere in the 40’s.
You speak by the book.
I can tell so well from the way you look.
An eerie expression of a bantam stare,
Quite an effect everytime you bury yourself with words like Voltaire.
One secret that I’ve always want to tell.
Reaction formation doesn’t suit you so well.
The walls adore your metaphors though.
How alphabets and rhythm in you naturally overflow.
The way you lit death in sudden motion blur.
Where faces synchronizes mirages of hurl and slur.
Quite some time too euphoric for us to decode,
Same as the potions you brought and the time we borrowed.
You are that one infamous symbolic vintage of a piece,
Of scarred entities that tore which seem to cease.
With every resonating motion of the chisel,
The Phantom of every despair will never ever shrivel.